


Hard Rock Hallelujah

by pengiesama



Series: Tales of Orchestra AU [2]
Category: Tales of Berseria
Genre: Alternate Universe - Metal Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, Musicians, some game spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 19:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13441383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pengiesama/pseuds/pengiesama
Summary: Velvet Crowe is full of rage. She has monetized this by joining a metal band.(Now, if only she could monetize punching her band-mates.)





	Hard Rock Hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Owlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlily/gifts).



> This was a request from Owlily! <3 This is from her own Orchestra AU, [which she has notes (and art!) for here](https://applegelstore.tumblr.com/tagged/orchestra+au/). Please redirect all praise and worship for the setting and plot her way!

Velvet Crowe was full of rage. There were many reasons for this, and she had itemized them as an organized list for easier categorization.

The Understandable Reasons were as follows:

Velvet’s parents were dead; leaving her older sister Celica to raise Velvet and her sickly little brother. Rage point one.

Their family wasn’t terribly wealthy as it was, but with the loss of their parents and the compensation for their accident tied up in court for years, Celica had to drop out of school to work. And any salary that could be earned by a teenager without a high school diploma wasn’t a salary that could support three mouths. Rage point two.

Velvet tried to help Celica, she really did. She took up housekeeping duties while Celica worked double and triple shifts at whatever jobs came her way, and tended to Laphicet, and tried her best to find work of her own. But after years of this shit, it probably wasn’t a surprise that Celica fell in with some older creep. 

Oh, it didn’t look that way at first – he charmed his way in, earned all their trust. He was some professor at the local university, and with that came a salary that could support Celica finishing up school, could support Laphicet’s physical therapy, could support food and nice clothes and even hobbies. Velvet started her passion for music here, with the gift of her first instrument and an invitation to the university’s orchestra for free group lessons from the kindly old conductor and his various protégés. (They tried to replenish the long-depleted college funds that their parents had started so long ago, which Velvet found faintly ridiculous even back in those ignorant, rose-tinted days. What was she going to go to college for? She would just give it all to Laphicet’s fund when it came to it.) 

And then Celica died giving birth to Velvet’s nephew. Who Velvet now had to drop out of school to raise, alongside Laphicet, because Celica’s fuckoff of a husband fucked off completely. Velvet loathed dramatic irony almost as much as she now loathed Celica’s husband. Rage points three through thirteen here.

The Petty Reasons were as follows: 

Velvet had fought Magilou to allow her to put fishnets on her stage costume, and now she realized she hated fishnets. They got caught on everything and were such a pain to hand-wash. Velvet would sooner shit a knife than cede any sort of loss to Magilou. Rage point fifty-four.

Velvet was a classically-trained cellist, and Magilou never wrote her any songs where she could show this off. Just because she was the best growler the group had didn’t mean that she didn’t want to occasionally showcase her artistic side. Rage point fifty-five.

And since when did Magilou take over as grand poobah of their band? A dictatorship run by that sleazebag was not what symphonic black melodic death thrasher noisecore demoncore neo-classical punk metal was supposed to be all about. Rage point fifty-six.

Also, since when did Velvet start taking Magilou’s adjective vomit on the topic of their genre seriously? They were a fucking metal band. End of sentence. Rage point fifty-seven.

On the topic of her bandmates, every single one of them pissed Velvet off to various extents, but her fellow orchestra burnout, Eleanor, was being especially unbearable lately. Unlike the rest of them, she was juggling university and the band and a job down in the college town – all of which Velvet actually respected, and she could respect the stress that came with all of it, too. But what she didn’t respect was Eleanor’s criminal justice major. Did she really have to damage the band’s image by outing herself as such an obnoxious fucking narc? Rage points fifty-eight and fifty-nine. Fucking narc-ass prep bassist—

DONK. DONK DONK DONK DONK DONK.

Today Rokurou was wandering around practice loudly banging on a cowbell with his drumstick. He had unilaterally declared to everyone gathered that he wanted to expand his percussive horizons with a new instrument. Normally Velvet would have put the “concussion” in his percussion about twenty minutes ago and left him to sleep it off in a ditch outside, but they had a guest today. 

Phi blinked at her from the table set up in the corner of Eizen’s garage, noticing Velvet’s intense stare. He waved, and then tucked his nose back into his book. Velvet squinted her eyes to inspect Phi’s bulky headphones from afar, then made a small, satisfied grunt. Her nephew Phi adored music, and reminded Velvet uncomfortably of his mother. She had always wanted to study it, write it, perform it for the world. (So much for that.) Phi was already a part of the nearby university’s hobby orchestra – while Velvet herself had dropped it for a number of reasons, she knew the conductor would be good and encouraging to Phi, and it allowed him to get out of the house besides. With Laphicet now away at university on scholarship, Velvet sometimes worried that she smothered Phi a little too much…she wondered how she managed to become an empty-nester at the age of twenty-two.

Velvet made a decent amount of money between her day job and the band’s gigs, and would have done anything it took regardless to get Phi whatever instrument he wanted...but he was mostly interested in being a conductor himself. Through his earnest determination, dedication, and crippling cuteness, he had managed to be named a “junior conductor”, which wasn’t, like...an actual thing. But he fetched the real conductor’s things for him when he was up on the stand, and looked so charming in his little pressed suit with his little shiny shoes handling out programs at shows that the donations from the crowd came pouring in.

Velvet stared at how those giant headphones dwarfed Phi’s little golden head, and how that cowlick curl of hair sproinged defiantly from beneath the headband no matter how many times he tried to stuff it back under. Velvet shuddered and forced herself to look away. Looking at cute shit was going to force her out of the Rage Zone, and her music always suffered when that happened.

Phi loved attending band practice with her, and Velvet allowed it on a number of conditions: condition the first, that he wear sound-cancelling headphones to prevent hearing damage from their deafening cacophony of noise. Condition the second, that the band only practice songs that didn’t have swears in them when Phi was in attendance. (Eleanor suggested they rewrite all their songs to remove the swears. Velvet told her to go fuck herself.) Condition the third, that he be sure to finish his homework beforehand, and condition the fourth, that he eat all his vegetables, and condition the fifth –

DONK DONK DONK DONK DONK.

It was bold of Rokurou to venture near Velvet with that cowbell. Lacking fortune herself, Velvet possessed no favor for the bold. The cowbell clattered to the floor, just as Rokurou did from Velvet’s right hook. Velvet glared in Eleanor’s direction, daring her to object. But it seemed that even narc-ass prep bassists had standards. Eleanor simply pretended to tune her guitar, deliberately not looking in their direction. 

“All rise!” Magilou announced, strutting into the room confidently with a bundle of posters under her arm. “Your manager has arrived, and she bears splendiferous tidings indeed!”

She glanced down at Rokurou’s unconscious body on the floor, then shrugged. She stepped on him as she passed, wringing a groan from him as her high-heel probably pierced his lung. 

“Good, you’re not dead,” Magilou observed. “I don’t wanna have to wrangle a new drummer from whatever Neanderthal caves they breed in. Not on such short notice, anyway.”

Magilou proudly unfurled a poster to reveal a tangled disaster of twigs and thorns that Velvet presumed was supposed to be their new logo. Magilou did this shit monthly, whenever her fickle reptile brain decided that they needed a new look, a new name, a new style, or a new adjective tacked on to their genre. One day, Velvet would end her. One day. In the meantime, she could dream about it. And oh, did she dream.

“...” Velvet stared Magilou down until she was peeved enough at the lack of praise and genuflection to notice the rest of the room wasn’t as excited as she was.

“I’m not sure I can read that,” Eleanor said, attempting to be tactful, which was your second problem when trying to interact with Magilou. The first problem was trying at all. “Is that supposed to be our name?”

“Of course!” Magilou said imperiously. She pointed to each bend in the logo with a perfectly manicured finger as she read. “‘Rose Witch and the Pirates’. It’s as clear as day.”

“I thought we were ‘Rose Witch and the Hellions’,” Eleanor said dubiously. 

“Formerly known as ‘Thorn Pink’s Dark Dreamers’,” Velvet added. “Formerly known as ‘Magi’s Infernal Machine’, formerly known as Therion of Babylon--”

“Yes, yes, we have a rich history,” Magilou dismissed. “So once we’re all in attendance, we can start discussing this quarter’s schedule. Where’s the less-hot blond of the team?”

“He stepped into the kitchen to take the croissants out,” Eizen stated from the doorway. He wore a brightly-colored frilled apron over his black band t-shirt, emblazoned with the logo and name of the band that they’d had about six changes ago. Between his oven mitts he held a tray of croissants.

“I hope they’re better than your last attempt,” Velvet said, approaching the tray to inspect them. “Did you actually follow my recipe exactly this time?”

Eizen’s perpetual scowl deepened minutely. “I understand baking is a science,” Eizen said. “But adding a pinch of cinnamon to the dough is hardly a deviation worthy of note.”

“Tell me,” Velvet said, low and dark. “Do you, or do you not, want hundreds of fluffy little pastry layers?”

Eizen’s face was an impenetrable mask. “...I do want hundreds of fluffy little pastry layers.”

Velvet picked up a croissant, and, slowly and deliberately, tore it in two.

“How many layers do you see,” Velvet asked him. “Eizen?”

Eizen refused to answer. Velvet picked up another croissant, set on disemboweling them one by one until Eizen was compliant. Eizen grunted in defeat before she split it.

“I do not see hundreds of fluffy little pastry layers,” Eizen admitted.

Velvet released her prisoner back to the baking tray.

“Now doesn’t the truth feel nice?” Velvet said. “That being said, though these are subpar, they’ll have to do for now. Go set them on the stovetop and I’ll get to them later for the croissandwiches.”

The kitchen could be seen from the garage, so Velvet could witness Eizen walking inside, setting the croissants down, and the oven immediately sparking and erupting in flames. Eizen rolled his eyes in irritation, and fetched one of the fire extinguishers stored in easy reach to take care of it. This was the reason why he was relegated to vocals on stage – any instrument he handled was doomed to an oft-firey fate. The croissants were irrevocably charred from the incident. So much for croissandwiches.

“Whatever. I wanted Indian takeout today anyway,” Magilou said airily. “Anyway. I renegotiated our record deal with the producer, and we start recording again next week.”

The group shifted uncomfortably. Rokurou was especially uncomfortable, as he had finally regained consciousness and was painfully dragging himself into a folding chair.

“I hope you were…civil?” Eleanor asked, already knowing the answer.

Magilou laughed aloud. A cackle, really. She took her stage image way too fucking seriously. Velvet didn’t pretend to be a demon while shopping for groceries, for chrissakes.

“Of course not!” Magilou said. “You gotta handle their kind of sleaze with a firm hand.”

Well, wasn’t that just the pot calling the kettle black. Regardless of that, not that Velvet would ever admit it, they owed their band’s commercial success to Magilou’s negotiation skills – and also owed their continued artistic independence and dignity to it as well. Velvet was reminded of the time their label tried to strong-arm “more tits” into their costuming, and fondly remembered them cowering in a corner as Magilou casually unfurled the long list of financial blackmail she’d collected on every one of the producers. They gave their band a wide berth after that. Having a law school drop-out like Magilou on their side was occasionally useful.

(“I didn’t drop out. I passed the bar and was a partner in a firm at twenty-five before I found my true calling as a witch of the black mists,” Magilou explained.

It wasn’t much of a career change, Velvet thought. Though she supposed lawyers didn’t get up to much keyboardistry.)

“I also think our shows need a new look,” Magilou continued. She whipped out her laptop and set it up within seconds on the table, and had a video of their last show up on the screen. She produced an extendable pointer from her purse, and pressed play.

Flames burst from the darkness, and as purple smoke billowed from the depths, the spotlights lit upon the members of Whatever-the-Hell-They-Were-Called-Now. The crowds roared, and Velvet roared back at them, very nearly drowning them out even without the help of the mic. She shredded on her guitar, leading in the opening song. Eizen’s deep smooth vocals somehow made Magilou’s ridiculous lyrics sound badass, carried by the thrumming undertones of Eleanor’s bass and Rokurou’s wild drumming. Midway through the song, during Velvet’s guitar solo, Magilou abandoned her keyboard to man the t-shirt cannon; hosing the fans in the first three rows with fake blood even as she showered them in free band tees.

Magilou poked at the screen as she spoke.

“Smoke machines and flamethrowers are sooo passé. We’ve gotta keep up with the times. What audiences really love these days are those holographic singing anime chickies. We’re gonna get us one of those and become the real next wave of symphonic black melodic death thrasher noisecore demoncore neo-classical punk metal. We’ll be symphonic black melodic death thrasher noisecore demoncore neo-classical _cyber_ punk metal--”

“Didn’t we just spend half our budget on a new smoke machine?” Eizen asked flatly. He was pecking away on his phone as he spoke; probably responding to his younger sister’s demands to bring her Chipolte when picking her up from the university that evening. “And the other half on printing the new logo?”

“That’s what crowdfunding is for!” Magilou said dismissively, flicking her pointer. She only barely managed to avoid jabbing Eleanor in the eye, though not through any care on her part. “Here, I already put together a campaign video.”

Magilou quickly switched videos, and hit play. A sad sad song, suitable for heartrending ads for animal charities, mournfully played over footage of Rokurou dressed up as Miku Hatsune, walking aimlessly through an abandoned, dilapidated building.

Everyone slowly turned to look at Rokurou. His face was swelling up like a balloon from Velvet’s punch, but he managed to shrug and grin regardless.

“I already had the costume,” Rokurou said, explaining nothing.

“ _Every year, thousands of anime computer girl things are abandoned, left to face the cold winter all on their own. For just five dollars, you can help Rose Witch and the Pirates help these majestic and innocent creatures find a loving home_.”

The footage showed Rokurou Hatsune gasping dramatically as he spotted a stick-and-box trap with a hot dog under it. He stuck his head under the trap, triggering the box to fall on his head. He flailed his limbs theatrically, squealing like the anime girl he vaguely resembled. Magilou puffed out of nowhere from a cloud of smoke, and threw a net over the whole apparatus to complete the capture.

“Trust me,” Magilou said. “Fans’ll eat this shit up.”

Phi had wandered over to watch the video with them, his headphones still securely on his head. He clearly hadn’t heard a word of what anyone had been saying, but smiled at Velvet happily regardless.

“Are those your new costumes?” Phi asked, unable to hear himself, and thus a bit too loud. He slowly removed a headphone from one ear, watching for Velvet’s reaction to confirm he was approved to do so. “I think they look nice.”

Magilou got a thoughtful look on her face, and Velvet gently, carefully tugged the headphone back over Phi’s ear so she could cuss Magilou out in earnest. Anime computer girl things and symphonic black melodic death thrasher noisecore demoncore neo-classical punk metal might be the mix that the people were asking for, but Velvet would wear that shit over her own dead body.

(Nor would she give up that smoke machine without a fight.)


End file.
